It would be easy for a stranger to assert that I had a child merely for my own amusement. This person would be wildly incorrect, and pretty brash, but it would be easy to say. I really enjoy watching my boy, and he is quite amusing. We dress him up in costumes, teach him how to give high fives, and tote him around town like he’s fancy new hand bag, or a well-groomed miniature poodle at a dog show.
I have deemed Oliver entertaining since the day he was born. When he was only two days old, he would sleep in the same pose at all times; flat on his back, head to the side, and his fist balled up just under his chin. He looked like The Thinker. I took pictures of him doing it, laughed with my wife, and waited for him to come up with cool new tricks so I could continue bragging to family and friends.
He has not yet disappointed. At nine months, the little guy can say “mama,” “dada,” and “bob,” as well as make fart noises with his lips. The other day, as my wife and I were singing “na-na-na-na, hey, hey, hey, goodbye,” the little guy chimed in with “na-na-na.” He struggled with saying “goodbye” and proceeded to vomit on my shoulder, but it was an inspiring performance nonetheless.
At a recent dinner with friends, I busted out my phone and excitedly showed them a video of my son talking. My wife looked at me as though I had stepped on a puppy and conveyed with her eyes “are you really going to be that parent?” It’s not as though she refrains from showing off videos and pictures. She loves doing that. She was just surprised that I had made the grand transformation to child-obsessed father.
I have crossed the bridge, and I am not going back. Please forgive me, Thomas-from-10-years-ago. I promise not to get any worse. At least not until next week. He might start walking soon, and I refuse to make any promises I can’t keep.